Best Russian Short Stories | Page 5

when he lays them bare
we know that they are not fictitious, not invented, but as real as the
ordinary familiar facts of life. This faculty of his playing on all
conceivable objects, all conceivable emotions, no matter how
microscopic, endows them with life and a soul. By virtue of this power

The Steppe, an uneventful record of peasants travelling day after day
through flat, monotonous fields, becomes instinct with dramatic interest,
and its 125 pages seem all too short. And by virtue of the same attribute
we follow with breathless suspense the minute description of the
declining days of a great scientist, who feels his physical and mental
faculties gradually ebbing away. A Tiresome Story, Chekhov calls it;
and so it would be without the vitality conjured into it by the magic
touch of this strange genius.
Divination is perhaps a better term than invention. Chekhov divines the
most secret impulses of the soul, scents out what is buried in the
subconscious, and brings it up to the surface. Most writers are
specialists. They know certain strata of society, and when they venture
beyond, their step becomes uncertain. Chekhov's material is only
delimited by humanity. He is equally at home everywhere. The peasant,
the labourer, the merchant, the priest, the professional man, the scholar,
the military officer, and the government functionary, Gentile or Jew,
man, woman, or child--Chekhov is intimate with all of them. His
characters are sharply defined individuals, not types. In almost all his
stories, however short, the men and women and children who play a
part in them come out as clear, distinct personalities. Ariadne is as
vivid a character as Lilly, the heroine of Sudermann's Song of Songs;
yet Ariadne is but a single story in a volume of stories. Who that has
read The Darling can ever forget her--the woman who had no separate
existence of her own, but thought the thoughts, felt the feelings, and
spoke the words of the men she loved? And when there was no man to
love any more, she was utterly crushed until she found a child to take
care of and to love; and then she sank her personality in the boy as she
had sunk it before in her husbands and lover, became a mere reflection
of him, and was happy again.
In the compilation of this volume I have been guided by the desire to
give the largest possible representation to the prominent authors of the
Russian short story, and to present specimens characteristic of each. At
the same time the element of interest has been kept in mind; and in a
few instances, as in the case of Korolenko, the selection of the story
was made with a view to its intrinsic merit and striking qualities rather

than as typifying the writer's art. It was, of course, impossible in the
space of one book to exhaust all that is best. But to my knowledge, the
present volume is the most comprehensive anthology of the Russian
short story in the English language, and gives a fair notion of the
achievement in that field. All who enjoy good reading, I have no reason
to doubt, will get pleasure from it, and if, in addition, it will prove of
assistance to American students of Russian literature, I shall feel that
the task has been doubly worth the while.
Korolenko's Shades and Andreyev's Lazarus first appeared in Current
Opinion, and Artzybashev's The Revolutionist in the Metropolitan
Magazine. I take pleasure in thanking Mr. Edward J. Wheeler, editor of
Current Opinion, and Mr. Carl Hovey, editor of the Metropolitan
Magazine, for permission to reprint them.
[Signature: Thomas Seltzer]

"Everything is subordinated to two main requirements--humanitarian
ideals and fidelity to life. This is the secret of the marvellous simplicity
of Russian literary art."--THOMAS SELTZER.

BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES

THE QUEEN OF SPADES
BY ALEXSANDR S. PUSHKIN

I
There was a card party at the rooms of Narumov of the Horse Guards.
The long winter night passed away imperceptibly, and it was five
o'clock in the morning before the company sat down to supper. Those
who had won, ate with a good appetite; the others sat staring absently at

their empty plates. When the champagne appeared, however, the
conversation became more animated, and all took a part in it.
"And how did you fare, Surin?" asked the host.
"Oh, I lost, as usual. I must confess that I am unlucky: I play mirandole,
I always keep cool, I never allow anything to put me out, and yet I
always lose!"
"And you did not once allow yourself to be tempted to back the red?...
Your firmness astonishes me."
"But what do you think of Hermann?" said one of the guests, pointing
to a young Engineer: "he has never had a